


my religion is you

by abovetheruins, vindicatedtruth (orphan_account)



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Celestial Themes, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:21:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7383445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/vindicatedtruth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The longest breath of love is the shortest distance to heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my religion is you

**Author's Note:**

> Another heartfelt collab with the wonderfully talented and infinitely lovely **[abovetheruins](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rewritingreality/pseuds/abovetheruins)**. Truly humbled and honoured to write with such an incomparable author, and such an invaluable friend. 
> 
> Cook's POV written by abovetheruins. Archie's POV by written by vindicatedtruth.
> 
> Title taken from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EcfZ_0YiDTw) by Skillet.  Summary taken from [this poem](http://arganesh3.tumblr.com/post/45869152153/aatmagaialove-love-love-is-never-alone-love) by Akiane Kramarik, as [posted by David Archuleta](https://twitter.com/DavidArchie/status/737720117929332736).

 

Cook’s never been a particularly religious man. 

He puts his faith in his own hands, in his family, his _music_. The stage has always been his altar. It’s there where he’s found his calling, his direction. In front of a crowd, bathed in the screams of his fans, with the music rushing thick and vibrant and _hot_ through his veins – that’s where he finds peace, _purpose_. 

That changes when he meets David Archuleta. _Everything_ changes. How he sees the world. How he sees himself. Everything that he thought he knew. Archie changes it all, changes _him_ , with his gentle, inquiring gaze, his brilliant smile, his _gorgeous_ voice.

So effortlessly giving, so exceedingly kind, so humble and contrite in the face of criticism, holding himself together with a quiet grace and a stalwart sense of faith that Cook had never understood from someone so young. Wanting nothing more than to share his music with the world, to help others through the gift of his song, to make them _feel_ something, anything, through the sheer power of his voice.

And what a voice it was. Cook would never forget the first time he heard its gentle swell, the clear, vibrant sound of it filling the auditorium during Hollywood Week. He remembers how the contestants around him had all frozen in their seats, struck dumb by the sheer power of the boy’s voice, how Cook himself had been no different, sitting there in a daze while Archie crooned the lyrics of Bryan Adam’s “Heaven,” his eyes closed as he lost himself in the music.

As the last note had cleared the air, _We’re in heaven_ fading into the silence of the auditorium, Archie’s eyes had fluttered open, a smile of serenity stealing over his lips as he faced the judges. Cook remembers blinking in the sudden stillness, his heart full of some unidentifiable emotion as he watched the boy take in the comments bestowed upon him, smiling gratefully at the praise before turning and leaving the stage.

After his own performance Cook had sought Archie out, wanting to express his admiration for the kid’s sheer talent if nothing else. He’d been surprised by Archie’s modesty, his humble thanks when Cook had complimented his performance and told him in no uncertain terms that, “You know you’re winning this thing, right?”

Archie had stumbled over his words in his haste to disagree, quick to congratulate Cook on his own performance.

“I really love that song. _I’ll Be_ , right? Your voice was really, um. You were really good!”

Cook had flushed with pride at the praise, unsure at the time why Archie’s words had affected him more keenly than even the judges’. It hadn’t made sense then, why it mattered to him what the boy thought of his voice, and yet he’d been awash with a strange sort of happiness for the rest of the encounter.

That had been the beginning, Cook knew. The beginning of his fascination with the boy with the golden voice who shared his name. The beginning of their friendship and his newfound determination to coax Archie out of his shell.

He’d never known then, never anticipated what that first meeting would lead to. When he’d taken Archie’s hand in his, introduced himself to the boy, the thought that they would end up here – together, in every conceivable way – had never even crossed his mind. He could never could have anticipated how important that boy on stage, crooning _Heaven_ to an auditorium full of stunned contestants, would become to him.

In the whirlwind of the competition, the stress and the nerves and the rush of performing on stage to an audience of millions, Archie became his rock, his confidant, his _friend_ , a companion in the madness of _American Idol_ that Cook could always count on, rely on.

Despite their differences, they formed a connection, a _bond_ , that Cook had honestly never felt with anyone else. And it was so _easy_ , in the end, for that connection to blossom into something more, their friendship changing, deepening, heralded by the first heated stirrings of attraction.

It had been a dizzying freefall from there, a headlong rush into love. Despite the odds, despite everything that should have cautioned them against it – the spotlights trained on them, a society that would never fully accept them and the shadow of Archie’s church looming at their backs – nothing had been able to prevent them from falling for each other, and falling _hard_.

And though he was no stranger to that dizzying rush, no stranger to the physical acts of love and lust, with Archie there was a new depth of want, of _need_ , that Cook had never felt before. He felt overwhelmed, out of control, lost in the wake of his desire each time they fell into each other, his hands shaking as they mapped out the planes and curves of Archie’s body, his heart full and aching with the strength of his love for this boy.

Cook’s never been a particularly religious man. The full measure of his devotion has always been dedicated to his music, the stage has always been his altar, in front of a crowd is where he’s found his purpose.

But within the circle of Archie’s arms, surrendering to his tender caresses, drowning in the warmth of his kisses and the heat of his skin – this is where Cook finds his sanctuary. Archie’s body, the lean stretch of his thighs, the broad span of his shoulders, the enticing dip at the base of his spine – this is the temple at which he falls, gladly, wholeheartedly, _repeatedly_ , to his knees.

His hands, drawing needy whimpers from Archie’s panting mouth; his lips and tongue, sucking bruises to life along the slender arch of Archie’s neck, laving invisible lines along the soft, fragrant skin of his inner thighs; his teeth, sinking into Archie’s plush bottom lip to the chorus of Archie’s breathy gasps and hushed exhalations of Cook’s name; his voice, coaxing the boy to dizzying heights of pleasure, urging him to _let go, fall in, drown in this moment with me_ – these are the tools of his devotion.

And their bed, tangled together in nothing but heat and skin and their love for each other – this is the altar at which Cook _worships_.

 

* * *

 

If Archie is to be asked what makes him believe in a Divine Being, there are two reasons he can give.

Music is one of them.

There is something unexplainably transcendent in the way Archie loses himself in it. When music possesses him, it consumes him _completely_. It transports him to a realm in which he is no longer himself, but wherein he is suddenly a part of something infinitely bigger, tangled in this web of interconnectedness through this One Language that transcends all known barriers. He finds himself effortlessly, fluently speaking this Language through song, each syllable captured in a note that flows in a dizzying rush to his fingers and is wrenched almost painfully from his throat. It twines itself around him, every tendril thrumming with the heartbeat of Life and powered by the blood of the Universe, and something at the core of his being responds so powerfully to it that he can only describe the light burning in the centre of his chest whenever he sings as his _soul_.

Science may be able to describe everything that is essential to perpetuate the continuous survival of the earth, but it can never hope to explain the existence of Art that is seemingly gifted to humanity as a beautiful extra: it is not necessary for survival, but it has become essential for _living_. And it is music that gives colour and definition to the otherwise faded photograph of Archie’s life, sharpening the blurred edges into a definite purpose in this otherwise meaningless existence.

Music is one of the reasons Archie believes in God, because it is a gift that can only come from Him. It is why Archie’s voice rings so clearly when he sings about Heaven, because music is one of the reasons he believes in it.

Love… is the other.

Because it doesn’t make sense either. All the good Archie has ever tried to do in his life doesn’t add up to the rightful balance of him even halfway _deserving_ the love of David Cook, and yet… _and yet_ …

He shivers as he feels lips skimming over the sensitive skin of his neck, the damp softness a gentle counterpoint to the ticklish brush of stubble. His fingers curl against Cook’s chest as he feels the hand on his lower back urge him closer, and he willingly allows himself to be led, willingly allows himself to be captured and held much in the same way music holds him captive.

Because here is the fascinating juxtaposition: whereas music makes Archie lose himself, it is in love that he finally _finds_ himself. It is in the love of David Cook that Archie falls back into himself, and willingly allows himself to fall apart, fearless of how he might never recover his shattered pieces because he trusts—completely, _wholeheartedly_ —in how Cook will always, _always_ keep him together. With Cook, he is grounded in the here and now, and everything else fades away to leave only the sanctity and sacredness of this, them, together.

And Archie doesn’t understand, for it doesn’t make sense why he has this, because Cook is not his answered prayer. Cook is the prayer he hasn’t even dared ask for, because he will never find it in himself to believe that he is worthy of something this _divine_.

Cook is his salvation, the one thing that protects him from everything that has tried to destroy him: from the moguls of the industry who try to corrupt the purity of his music with their avarice, to the hypocrites in Church who try to tear him apart for what they believe to be is a sin in _loving_.

Cook is his absolution, his undeserved gift of forgiveness, as he is already granted pardon for a selfish decision that made him leave behind the very people he loves the most, for Cook only readily welcomed him back, even as Archie still believes the rest of his life is not enough for him to heal the hurt his absence has cost Cook, cost them both.

Cook is his redemption, the one thing that makes every sacrifice, every hurt, every suffering worth it, as he holds on to what they have as his one fixed point in a changing age, his permanence in this transient world, his unwavering constant in an otherwise solitary life.

Cook is his exaltation every time their shared name falls from Archie’s lips: every breathless gasp his hosanna, every moan his alleluia, every scream for _more, faster, harder_ and for them to _never stop oh god please don’t ever stop_ his amen to the way they die in each other’s arms, because Cook is his resurrection and his ascension to the kind of heaven that only this completion of their joint bodies can bring.

Cook is his eternity, his religion, his prayer, his _song_ —and _it doesn’t make sense_ for him to be granted with such a divine _gift_ , and yet he has it.

And this, more than anything, is what makes Archie believe in God, because only a Divine Being can ever bless a lowly, flawed, weak human being like him with such _unconditional love_.

Because when Cook loves him like this—like Archie is his own benediction, every touch of his hands and mouth on Archie’s body a reverent prayer in itself, a _worship_ that Archie doesn’t deserve but all the more _yearns_ for—it’s when Cook becomes his petition.

“Please,” he says softly, and he feels his entire frame shudder with the strength of his need, so much that he _aches_ with it, longing for Cook to fill him again, to breach him, to _take_ him, to prove to him all over again that he will always have this, that he will never lose this, that Cook will never, ever let him go—

“Love me,” he begs in a whisper, and when Cook looks at him, he is openly drank by that thirsty gaze, and the exaltation falls from his lips all over again: “David, _please_.”

And he can only humbly ask—never demand, never expect—for this kind of love is one that should be willingly given, and Archie finds himself both eternally grateful for still being blessed by it, and unaccountably _selfish_ for always _needing_ it—

And his eyes flutter close as he breathes his prayer against Cook’s open, waiting mouth: “ _Love me_.”

 

* * *

 

 

For a moment Cook is frozen, feeling Archie’s lips cling to his, hearing the roar of Archie’s heartbeat beneath his hand, Archie’s desperate plea ringing in his ears.

“ _Love me_.” 

Like he even needs to ask. Like he _ever_ needs to ask, when Cook would gladly offer up everything, his body, his heart, his fucking _soul_ , and lay them out like gifts at Archie’s feet without a second thought.

Surely Archie knows that. He has to, has to know that everything Cook has is his – Cook’s love, Cook’s desire, Cook’s faith, Cook’s devotion. They always have been, ever since they took that first frantic freefall into each other.

If Archie doesn’t know the truth of that by now… well, Cook will simply have to prove it to him.

He holds their kiss for a moment more, fingers spreading over Archie’s chest; he’s so _warm_ , slick with sweat from their earlier endeavors, body languid and open against the rumpled sheets. Cook feels him shudder beneath his touch, feels Archie’s hands wrap around his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin. Cook swallows back a groan at the sensation, wants to tell Archie to dig deeper, harder, press bruises into Cook’s skin so he’ll have a tangible reminder of this, of them, always.

But first… first, Cook needs Archie to know – needs to prove to him – that what they are, what they have –

– it’s _everything_.

He licks softly at the seam of Archie’s lips, once, twice, before he eases away from his lover’s mouth. Archie’s fingers catch on his skin, his body arching off the bed as though to follow Cook, or pull him back down, and Cook reels at the expression on his face, single-minded desperation mixed with a blazing _need_ that sears Cook down to his fucking bones.

His curls his hands around Archie’s cheeks, leaning down to press a calming kiss to his lips, seeking to soothe the trembling of his lover’s limbs, ease the rapid gallop of his heart.

Archie’s mouth falls open beneath his, as hungry for Cook as if they hadn’t just spent hours wrapped in each other’s arms, sharing breath and heat and skin, as though he was _always_ hungry, always wanting –

Wanting _this_ , wanting _Cook_ , needing him, desperate for him, and god, Cook has no idea how to respond to such abject _devotion_ , no idea how he deserves it, especially from this boy, who exudes radiance with every breath he takes, every note he sings, every sweet, tender smile he bestows upon Cook a gift and a benediction all in one.

All he can do, all he knows _how_ to do, is to respond in kind, with all of the tenderness, the reverence, the passion that Archie inspires in him.

And he knows just where to start.

He eases away from Archie’s tempting mouth, murmuring, “Easy, easy,” as Archie whimpers at the loss. “Not going anywhere,” he continues, pressing a soft kiss to Archie’s brow, his fluttering eyelids, each flushed cheek. He means for more than just this moment, more than just this night; as long as Archie will have him, Cook will never let him go. The words flutter restlessly in the hollow of his throat, and so he depends upon action and action alone to get his point across. 

He follows a downward path along Archie’s jaw, tipping Archie’s chin back so that he can suck a bruise into the long line of the boy’s throat. Archie’s fingers wind into his hair, shifting restlessly through the strands as Cook continues, meandering down his body at a lazy, unhurried pace. He kisses the sweet hollow of Archie’s throat, follows the elegant sweep of Archie’s collarbone with his lips, tasting sweat, tasting _heat_ , and drowning in the exquisite aroma of Archie’s slick skin.

He can feel Archie stirring against his thigh. The urge to suck his boyfriend’s length into the heat of his mouth, to feel him thickening against his tongue, is strong, but Cook valiantly resists, wanting to take his time, to devote equal attention to every inch of Archie’s body, every erogenous zone, every sweet spot that Cook has discovered along the way. He intends to make this _last_.

So he ignores his desire to swallow Archie to the root – for now – and wraps his lips around the sculpted curve of his lover’s shoulder instead, running his palm along the length of Archie’s opposite arm. He can feel the wiry strength of Archie’s bicep and forearm, and spends endless moments raining kisses down onto the muscled flesh, delighting in Archie’s gasping breaths and sweet, shuddering sighs.

He lingers over Archie’s wrist, holding Archie’s hand within the cradle of his own as he nibbles at the fragrant swath of skin. Archie’s pulse beats against his tongue, echoed by his shuddering cries, and Cook glances up at him, drinking in the sight of his lover so lost to his pleasure, his head tossed back, the pink tip of his tongue swiping over his full bottom lip as Cook lavishes his wrist and the meat of his palm with biting kisses. Each slender finger receives due attention, Cook sucking them into the heat of his mouth much like he longs to do to Archie’s gorgeous cock. He digs his nails into Archie’s palm, wrenching a gasping moan from his lover’s mouth, and answers Archie’s cry with a groan of his own as he feels Archie’s fingertips brush against the back of his throat.

“ _Cook_ ,” Archie moans, his legs shifting restlessly against the bed. “Please, I need… “ His hips press insistently against Cook’s, and it’s no mystery what he’s longing for. His cock is a hot brand against Cook’s thigh, demanding attention, but Cook isn’t finished yet, far from it.

He releases Archie’s fingers with a wet pop, rubbing his swollen lips against the slick digits. “Taking my time, baby,” he murmurs, voice throaty and hoarse with exertion, with desire. “Want to show you how much I love you.”

Archie whimpers, his thighs spreading, wrapping around Cook’s hips. “It’s enough,” he whispers, curling his fingers around Cook’s cheek, his nails scratching through Cook’s stubble. “Cook, it’s already enough, okay? Just – please.” He slots their hips together, his gaze pleading. “Want you in me.”

The words stoke a fire in Cook’s blood, rushing through his veins in a torrent of liquid heat. He’s so fucking tempted to give in, to give Archie exactly what he wants, but he promised to take his time, to venerate every inch of Archie’s body with the devotion it deserves, and that’s exactly what he plans to do.

“Oh, Archie,” he breathes, his voice a thick rasp. “I’m just getting started.”

 

* * *

 

Taking a deep breath, Archie willingly follows as Cook gently pushes at his chest, urging him to lay back on the bed. He closes his eyes and wills his shaking limbs to still, crumpling the sheets in his hands as he feels his entire being thrum and _ache_ for Cook, feeling so hollow and empty inside without Cook to fill him.

His entire body is _crying_ for that consummation, but Archie resolutely swallows it all back, because he can’t allow himself to be selfish—not under this kind of veneration, so devoted and so tender, lovingly bestowed with touch and lips and teeth and tongue. He wants so badly to respond in kind, to give in to whatever _Cook_ wants as well, and if Cook wants to take it slow, then Archie is only all too willing to give in to what his lover needs from him.

But oh, what exactly is it that Cook wants right now…?

He senses Cook sliding down, and against Archie’s will his hips lift hopefully as his cock throbs to a near-painful degree, but instead he feels the warm gust of breath against his thigh as Cook chuckles softly. Curiosity winning over desire at the moment, Archie peeks at his lover as he makes his way further downward.

He can’t help but gasp in surprise as Cook lifts one of his feet and rests the heel of it on his shoulder for support. Archie’s cheeks burn in simultaneous shyness at the vulnerability and at the heavy spike of arousal, and he bites his lip to stifle the very strong urge to _beg_ , as being spread wide open like this strongly reminds him of the act that usually follows this position—with Cook buried to the hilt deep inside him.

Instead, Cook turns his head to lave his tongue against the delicate dip of his ankle. Archie tosses his head back as his mouth falls open soundlessly, because _my god_ he didn’t realise, and how did Cook even _know_ —

He moans this time when Cook sinks his teeth into the skin, and begins to slowly, slowly make his way back up Archie’s body again as he lavishes biting, open-mouthed kisses up Archie’s calf; up until that moment, Archie had no idea that this part of his body is _so incredibly sensitive_. He feels the scratch of fingernails up his other leg as Cook’s hand follows the same trail, guitar-callused fingers gripping and kneading firmly on his skin. Archie _shivers_ , knowing that it’s going to leave welts and marks in the morning—and he feels inexplicably _satisfied_ at the thought.

Cook has never given so much attention to _this_ part of his body before, but Archie discovers that the sensation is… not unpleasant. It is the very opposite of unpleasant, in fact, and goosebumps begin to break out all over his body as his senses suddenly become _heightened_. He feels every brush of stubble, every rasp of teeth, every slick swirl of tongue, and Archie is surprised at how incredibly _responsive_ his body is to Cook’s unusual ministrations.

He can hear his pulse roaring in his ears as Cook lifts his leg further and experimentally presses a kiss to the back of his knee—and Archie freezes at the erotic shock the hot, wet sensation of Cook’s mouth _there_ has shot up his leg and straight through his cock. Pleased at Archie’s reaction, Cook _bites_ that sensitive skin, and he isn’t sure who between them is more surprised at the unexpected discovery of what is apparently one of Archie’s most potent hotspots.

“ _Cook_ , ah!” Archie very nearly sobs when Cook draws that skin into his mouth and sucks hard. “ _Oh_! Oh g-god…” Face aflame at the blasphemy that escapes his lips with the overpowering _intensity_ of his need, Archie throws his hand over his eyes as he turns his head to the side, biting into his pillow to stifle the screams threatening to burst out of his throat.

“Don’t,” he hears Cook rasp, suddenly. Heart pounding loudly against his ribcage, Archie drops his hand and wrenches his eyes open to see Cook rubbing his cheek along the flesh of Archie’s inner thigh, the comfort being offered in the gesture a stark contrast to the fire of unabashed desire burning in Cook’s hazel eyes.

“Don’t hide yourself from me,” Cook says quietly, and before Archie can delve into the deeper layer of meaning he can just _feel_ is hidden beneath those words, Cook transfers his mouth to the soft flesh of Archie’s underbelly and begins to devote his attention there.

Bitten-back cries and whimpers escape him as he shifts restlessly under that tender assault, his hands fluttering skittishly over Cook’s shoulders, needing something to hold onto but afraid he might hurt Cook with his grip. Cook noses at the thatch of hair at his groin as he playfully nibbles at the soft skin around Archie’s navel, making him moan. It feels so _good_ and yet at the same time so painfully _bereft_ , having Cook lavish attention to the parts of his body that heighten his pleasure—except for the one that’s crying for his attention the most.

His face _burns_ when he feels his cock nudging at Cook’s cheek, and he’s leaking so much that he’s smearing Cook’s face with his precome. The sight of it is so beautifully _sinful_ that it’s almost too much to look at, almost as if he’s defiling the face of a saint fallen prostrate before him, but Cook defiantly holds his gaze as he dips and swirls his tongue into Archie’s navel. Archie squeezes his eyes shut this time as he feels his stomach muscles tighten in warning, and even though his body is straining so much towards release, this _isn’t_ the way he wants to come.

“Come here,” he gasps as he involuntarily tugs at Cook’s hair, making him hiss at the sting. “Come here, _please_ ,” he whimpers as he tugs more insistently, and Cook finally relents as he crawls back up Archie’s body.

He latches onto Cook as soon as their faces are level, bringing him down for a searing, thorough kiss. He cards his fingers through Cook’s hair in mute apology at the hurt he caused as he delves inside Cook’s open mouth, lovingly and sensuously caressing his tongue with his own. He writhes beneath Cook as he shifts his body to position them both and— _god, yes, there_.

Cook moans into his mouth as their cocks are now aligned, trapped between the tight, slick heat of their bodies, and Archie closes his lips over Cook’s tongue, fellating it eagerly as he rocks them both, the head of their cocks catching and sliding against one another.

He only manages to thrust once, twice more before Cook grips his hips to still him warningly, and he wrenches his mouth away to breathe heavily against Archie’s neck: “ _Fuck_ , not yet, not this way.” Archie’s breath is coming in gasps as well, and even in the haze of his lust he realises that pleasuring _him_ has aroused Cook to the point that he’s close, too.

Gently, he cups his lover’s face in both hands as he eases back to look at him. They look at each other for a long, quiet moment as they catch their breath, letting the burning urgency of their bodies settle into a manageable flame. Archie’s gaze softens as he takes in the sight of those handsome features, and Cook’s eyes fall close as Archie lets his fingers run slowly, lightly, over Cook’s face.

He feels Cook smile beneath his fingertips. “What are you doing?”

“Memorising you,” Archie answers softly. _Memorialising you_ , is what he doesn’t say as he maps the shape and curve of Cook’s cheek, his nose, his eyes, his lips, his forehead, his jaw, wanting to commit every detail to memory, building a shrine to this beautiful soul and the divinity of his love in the temple of his mind.

 _You’re the only one I want to worship_ , he thinks as his thumbs caress the soft skin beneath Cook’s eyes, and Archie finds that the supposed blasphemy of it doesn’t bother him. Because if God has indeed been the One to have blessed him with a love as infinite and all-encompassing as this, then Archie thinks… God would understand.

“The Gospel of John,” Archie murmurs. “Chapter fifteen, verse thirteen.”

Cook’s mouth quirks at that. “I’m jealous of your thoughts,” he muses. “You seem to get lost in them often.”

Archie’s eyes widen momentarily at that—the words are casual and light, but something tells him there is more weight to Cook’s statement than he’s letting on.

 _‘Don’t hide yourself from me,’_ he remembers.

Throat tightening with emotion, Archie shakes his head. “Don’t be,” he whispers. “They are all about you.”

Something vulnerable flashes across Cook’s face at that, and Archie realises that maybe—maybe Cook doesn’t know. Cook has always been a man of action rather than words, so maybe—maybe it’s not enough to tell him.

Archie must show him, too.

Reaching down to twine his fingers through Cook’s, he guides his hand to stroke gently up his side, letting Cook feel the way Archie shivers under his touch. “This is yours,” he murmurs, and Archie means his body, offering it completely for Cook to use for his pleasure.

He now guides Cook’s hand up his neck and jaw, letting his lips caress the tips of Cook’s fingers. “This is yours,” he says as he presses a smile against Cook’s hand, and Archie means his happiness, every word of kindness and forgiveness Cook has ever inspired in him. 

He guides Cook’s hand to his throat. “This is yours,” Archie says as his Adam’s apple vibrates against Cook’s fingers, and Archie means his voice, every song he sings for him and him alone, every air he breathes, every reason to breathe.

And finally, he guides Cook’s hand to his chest and holds it there, letting Cook feel the beat of his heart against his fingertips. “And this,” Archie whispers, “is wholly, completely yours,” and he means that Cook is the blood flowing in his veins, the soul giving him life, the love that keeps giving him a reason to live.

He watches the way Cook’s face is overcome with emotion, and Archie hopes that maybe… maybe he can finally make Cook understand through this.

 _The Gospel of John, chapter fifteen, verse thirteen._  

His other hand reaches out to cup Cook’s cheek. “All that I am,” he says softly, “all that I have, and all that I’ll be… I lay them down before you.”

Here in the temple of their bedroom, in the altar of their bed, in the hushed reverence of their lovemaking that carries a wholly different weight now… Archie intends to finally let Cook know. 

_‘Greater love hath no man than this…’_

He takes a deep breath as he looks up at the face of the only man he will ever love this way. “I am the sacrifice.”

Cook’s eyes widen as Archie cups his face with both hands. “And you…”

He wonders if Cook truly knows the weight of what he’s saying, and realises that it doesn’t matter.

“You are my heaven.”

He lifts himself up to twine his arms around Cook’s neck.

_‘Greater love hath no man than this… that a man lay down his life for his friends.’_

He holds onto Cook’s wide, vulnerable gaze.

… _And I offer my life to you._

He closes his eyes and breathes against Cook’s lips.

“Let me die in your arms tonight.”

 

* * *

Cook’s breath catches in his throat. Within his chest, his heart gallops like a wild thing. 

To have someone – to have _David_ – wrapped around him, pulling him in, telling him in no uncertain terms that Cook is his _heaven_ , that everything he has, everything that he _is_ – his body, his happiness, that beloved voice and endlessly giving, tender heart – is Cook’s…

Whatever doubts Cook had been harboring, the fear that had lingered, despite his best efforts, deep in the recesses of his heart –

Archie’s words, the guileless love and affection he’s so tenderly bestowed upon Cook this night – they wash all of those fears and doubts away like a cleansing tide. Cook feels reborn in the wake of such a baptism; more than that, he feels _treasured_ , venerated by Archie’s touch, his kiss, his love.

 _This_ , Cook thinks wondrously, falling back into Archie’s arms, the slick, sweet press of Archie’s mouth against his own, _this is **worship**_.

And how better to return such abject devotion, such adoration, than to give his lover exactly what he desires?

 _Let me die in your arms tonight_.

Cook can do that; tonight, and for all the nights to come, until the clock runs out.

“You know me,” he breathes against Archie’s mouth, running his palms down the length of Archie’s thighs, slipping eagerly between his legs. He smirks as Archie’s eyes flutter close, his breaths coming in short pants as Cook spreads him open. “I can never say no to you, Archie.”

Archie’s mouth goes slack as Cook bends his head, slipping free of his lover’s hold to settle into the warm cradle of Archie’s groin. He hitches Archie’s thighs up until his knees curl over Cook’s shoulders, all of him open and exposed to Cook’s ravenous gaze. His face is the picture of hopeful desperation, his hands falling to the bed and clenching fistfuls of the rumpled sheets between his fingers.

Cook doesn’t plan to make him wait.

He doesn’t bother with teasing, knows that both of them are too far gone at this point for that. He simply parts his lips against the moist, swollen head of Archie’s cock, and sucks it into the heat of his mouth.

“A-ah! _Cook_!” Archie’s voice breaks on a trembling moan, Cook’s name a garbled prayer on his tongue, and Cook eagerly swallows down his prize, wanting, needing more of those sounds, that _music_ in his ears.

He curls his tongue against Archie’s cock, undulating against the moist, heated flesh and drowning in the familiar musky flavor of his lover’s fragrant skin. Archie’s legs go rigid against his shoulders at the attention, a litany of strangled gasps pouring from his lips as Cook laps at his slit, and he reaches a hand between his legs to brush his fingers, feather light, over Archie’s balls. He doesn’t stop there, not until his fingers have sought out Archie’s entrance, and he spends a few breathless moments slipping the pad of his middle finger over the puckered skin, again and again and again until Archie’s mewling his name into the darkness, his voice catching on a broken cry.

“Please,” he rasps, his hands pulling at the sheets, chest slick with sweat and heaving with each panting breath he takes. “ _Please_ , Cook. Right there, touch me, _fill me_ , yesyes _yes_ – !”

Cook pulls away with a trembling moan, panting as he fumbles for the tube of lubricant he’d left by Archie’s hip, nearly lost in the folds of the crumpled sheets. Urgency swims like a potent drug through his blood, Archie’s words sparking the blaze simmering beneath his skin into a full-blown _inferno_. In moments he’s covered his fingers with slick and returned them to Archie’s hole; between one heartbeat and the next, he’s burying his middle finger to the hilt.

Archie bows up off the bed with a ragged gasp at the intrusion, before his body slumps into the cradle of the wrinkled bed sheets with a deep sigh of pleasure, of _relief_.

 _Oh, sweetheart_ , Cook thinks tenderly, slipping a second finger in alongside the first, the grip of Archie’s body hot and slick and _everything_ , yes. _This is yours. All of it, all of **me** , always_.

“Cook?” Archie’s voice is hushed, hoarse with exertion. He’s propped himself up on his elbows to better see Cook, curiosity mingling with arousal on his expressive face, and Cook realizes he’s said that last part aloud. _Always_.

“This,” he starts, pumping his fingers in and out of Archie’s hole, drinking in the chorus of Archie’s sighs and gasping moans like the sweetest music. “Me.” He brushes his cheek against the warmth of Archie’s thigh, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat and Archie’s skin. “They’re yours, you know? Always, for as long as you want them.” The implication is there, _forever_ left unsaid, an unspoken vow that Archie will always own the best parts of him, that here, with Archie, is where Cook’s found his _home_.

Archie whimpers, a trill of notes that reminds Cook of a fucking _song_ even now, and the awe Cook sees in those radiant eyes sears him to the bone.

Kneeling there between Archie’s thighs, buried in the cradle of his groin as Archie pleads for his touch, every inch of him open, waiting, _wanting_ , Cook feels superhuman, like a deity of love and flesh and sex, of pounding heartbeats and skin that shivers beneath the heated press of lips and teeth and tongue, a divine being venerated by Archie’s offering of adoration, desire, and desperation.

 _Let me die in your arms tonight_ , Archie had begged.

Cook rears up, catching Archie’s mouth in a slow, thorough kiss, all rolling tongues and clinging lips as he eases his fingers out of Archie’s body and reaches one final time for the lube. _Let’s die together instead_ , he thinks, coating his cock with a generous helping of slick, groaning into Archie’s mouth at the contact against his heated flesh.

This would be no sacrifice, Cook vows, but a shared baptism of heat and skin, heartbeats pounding to the same frantic rhythm and bodies entwined as one.

It feels like coming _home_ as Cook finally, _finally_ eases inside, guiding his cock into the snug, silken heat of Archie’s welcoming body one tortuously slow inch at a time. Archie’s arms twine around his neck, the breathless cadence of his voice echoing against Cook’s ear, an endless litany of _yes_ and _please_ and _Cook_ whispered against his skin.

Cook’s mouth slackens against Archie’s shoulder, overcome by the sheer fucking pleasure of his lover’s body opening up to him, sucking him inside, until he’s buried to the hilt and shaking with the white hot wave of ecstasy crashing over him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whimpers, breathing harshly against Archie’s skin. He could stay like this for days, his balls snug against Archie’s ass, savoring the clench of Archie’s muscles around his cock.

But it seems Archie has other plans. He’s been driven to the brink of pleasure too often tonight without the satisfaction of plunging over that perilous edge, and desperation is rife in every shift of his slick, grasping limbs, the twitch of his cock against Cook’s stomach, and his pleas for Cook to, “Move. Please, Cook, _move_.” His heels dig into Cook’s upper back, coaxing him closer, deeper –

Cook has always been helpless to deny Archie anything. He doesn’t plan on starting now.

 

* * *

 

A nebula of colors and spots and stars dance in a frenzy behind Archie’s eyelids as he swims in and out of conscious ecstasy, feeling like all the parts of himself are falling apart, like his very _soul_ is floating in space even as his entire body is zinging with pleasure, hyperaware of how _full_ he feels—how complete, how _whole_.

His senses are turned up to eleven as he feels every inch of Cook above him, _inside_ him, all around him; he can’t tell anymore where he ends and Cook begins, as if it’s Cook’s blood that’s roaring in his own ears, as if it’s Cook’s voice that’s threatening to break free from his own throat with a hoarse cry. Every cell in his human body is singing a canticle of Cook’s name, and it feels like he’s hovering between heaven and earth, at the brink of something that’s about to explode—like a dying star ready to be reborn into a prism of stardust.

 _Our colors appear and bleed into one_. His beloved’s lyrics flit through his thoughts, and his eyes fall close, ready to surrender.

“ _Don’t_ —” Cook suddenly hisses against his neck when he begins to move, and Archie stills, hearing the hushed urgency.

“Cook?” he whispers hoarsely, threading his fingers through Cook’s hair in silent worry—and gasping at the look Cook gives him.

Cook looks half-crazed, the lunacy of his expression fuelled by desperate lust, and it’s a punch to the gut when Cook crushes his mouth to Archie’s in a bruising kiss. He pushes the heel of his palms against Archie’s knees to spread him further open as he buries himself _deeper_ , as if he still can’t get as close as he wants even when they’re _joined_ like this. He grinds his cock into slow, heavy circles inside of Archie’s ass, laying claim to each slick wall of muscle too, and inside Archie’s mouth his tongue mirrors the same proprietary action.

The moan that escapes Archie is wanton and _obscene_. Every single one of his neurons is on fire, feeling the way Cook is inside him in every way, _claiming_ him in every way. He begins undulating his hips in turn, groaning at the feel of his cock sliding wetly against Cook’s stomach and letting Cook feel the same delicious friction inside of him. He rakes his fingernails down Cook’s chest, catching on his nipples, and Cook wrenches his mouth away to suck in a deep lungful of air.

“ _Ah_ \- Archie…” Cook breathes heavily as his hips convulse helplessly against Archie’s thighs. “Baby, look at me.”

Archie’s eyes flutter open to meet similar hazel ones, and the manic glint in Cook’s gaze is tempered by the clarity and tenderness of his words.

“Don’t,” Cook continues softly, picking up where he left off: “Don’t go where I can’t follow you.”

Archie swears he feels his heart stutter to a halt. “... _What_?”

Cook slides his palms slowly down Archie’s legs as he hitches them up over his back, wrapping them around himself. He leans down, touching his forehead to Archie’s, and tremblingly caresses his cheek.

“Don’t go where I can’t follow you,” Cook repeats, holding his gaze, and Archie feels something inside of him _break_ , understanding _everything_ Cook means in that deceptively simple statement. He kisses Archie again, chastely this time, and whispers: “If you die, I die with you.”

Archie inhales sharply, remembering his own plea—‘ _Let me die in your arms tonight_ ’—and shivering at the way Cook’s answering declaration seeps through his skin, his bones, his _soul_ , as he acknowledges the layers of meaning beneath it: a hushed entreaty of _I need you, please don’t leave me_ and a quiet oath of _I won’t let you be alone ever again, not in this, not tonight, not **ever**_.

Cook’s moves to brace himself on the pillow beneath Archie’s head, and Archie groans when he feels Cook slowly sliding out of him. His mouth falls open as he struggles to _breathe_ , and one of Cook’s hands move to card his fingers through Archie’s hair, holding him in place and forbidding him to look away.

“Together,” Cook whispers as he pauses at Archie’s entrance. “Let’s die together.”

And he thrusts back in, _hard_.

The stars in Archie’s vision begin to blind him as Cook barely gives him time to catch his breath as he sets a fevered, frenetic pace, too far gone to take it slow. Unwilling to be a passive partner, Archie rears his hips up, meeting Cook thrust for thrust, and he _keens_ as each manic plunge hits his prostate over and over. His hold on Cook’s shoulders become bruising as his fingers dig deep into the skin, and he throws his head back as he loses himself in this wild, animalistic dance, falling back on his native language when every other word seems to fail him.

“ _David_ ,” he sobs, their shared name falling from his lips in ardent benediction. “Mi querido, mi vida—quiero que me folles duro, por favor, _ah_! David, _por favor_ …!”

The last syllable ends in a drawn-out scream as Cook grips his hips tightly and begins ramming into him mindlessly, losing all rhythm as Cook finally allows himself to chase his own pleasure. Archie fervidly lets him, contracting his inner muscles with each frantic thrust and milking each pleasurable friction on Cook’s cock.

“ _David_ ,” Cook cries in return, the syllables rolling like a biblical anthem on his mouth, and Archie can only moan encouragingly in reply. He can feel through the tremors of Cook’s limbs that he has quickly risen to his peak, and Cook sobs onto the skin of his shoulder, “I’m close, David, _I’m close_ —”

And Archie feels his heart swell to twice its size, because even in this, Cook is _waiting for him_.

Shakily, he grips Cook by the neck and guides his head so that they’re face-to-face once more. They’re both panting heavily, hotly, and in their shared breath Archie exhales in his mouth:

“Come with me, David. _Come with me_.”

Cook’s gaze _flares_ with fire, and without warning he grips Archie’s cock and begins pumping frantically in time to his thrusts. Archie finds himself suddenly pushed to the very edge as he _howls_ his pleasure, and Cook pounds into him powerfully, once, _twice_ more—

Their climax hits them both at once, and they grasp each other tightly as they tumble over the edge together, their bodies frozen in a beatific arch as Cook fills him at the same moment Archie cries out his own release. Their mouths fall open against each other, not quite a kiss in as much as it mirrors the act of resuscitation, breathing life back into each other after their shared death—together even in this rebirth, this baptism of divine, transcendent love.

They hold each other close as they descend from the peak and the galloping of their hearts—beating as one—slow to a steadier pace. Dimly, Archie senses Cook reaching for something behind him, and he blearily opens his eyes to see Cook smiling tenderly at him as he gently cleans them both with the wipes he got from the nightstand.

Archie smiles softly back, his insides warming with affection and gratitude at the way Cook takes care of him even in this. Cook carelessly throws the soiled tissue in the bin on the side of the bed, and presses a reassuring kiss to Archie’s forehead when he whimpers as Cook gently eases out of him. Archie immediately wraps his limbs around Cook, not quite ready or willing to be parted yet, and it seems that even this sentiment is shared as Cook clings to him tightly.

“David…” Archie whispers as he gazes up at that beloved face, tracing the crinkles around Cook’s eyes and his mouth when he smiles. He feels like he can write odes to the joy he sees at the way Cook is looking at him, can sing endless hymns to the way he finds his sanctuary in Cook’s body, his soul, his _heart_.

There are many things Archie wants to tell him still, many things Archie wants to _ask_ him, but they all get garbled and stuck in his throat somehow:

_Will you let me take care of you like this, too?_

_Will you let me always hold you close, and let my love surround you, let me protect you in the same way you’ve always protected me?_

_Will you surrender yourself to me, too? Will you let me take you, fill you, prove to you that I will never, ever leave you, and that you will never lose me, even if it means defying fate and God himself just to be by your side, always?_

_Will you let me love you the way you deserve? And even if I don’t deserve this, will you let me try? Will you let me never, ever stop trying to be deserving of you?_

_Will you let me show you, for the rest of my life, God-willing, that you are **everything**? _

_… Will you let me always promise you forever, too?_

There are many things Archie wants to tell him, words that are rising from the rhythm of his heart and the song of his soul—but in the end, he is only able to encapsulate it all in one simple, heartfelt question.

“Will you let me be your heaven, too?”

Cook stills at that humble supplication as he looks at Archie searchingly, and Archie can only gaze steadily back, waiting for his answer.

And then Cook shakes his head—stopping Archie’s heart for one breathless moment—before he captures Archie’s mouth in a lingering kiss.

“Idiot,” Cook tells him softly, and it’s the sweetest sound of _I love you_ Archie has ever heard.

“… You already are.”

 

 


End file.
